A Warrior's Solace
by turus1
Summary: Sandor Clegane returns to his chamber after saving Sansa Stark from an angry mob on the day princess Myrcella left King's Landing. Later that night the Stark girl finds his saviour in a compromising situation.
1. The Hound

_Sandor Clegane cantered briskly through the gates astride Sansa's chestnut courser. The girl was seated behind, both arms tight around the Hound's chest._  
><em>Tyrion called to her. "Are you hurt, Lady Sansa?"<em>

_Blood was trickling down Sansa's scalp. "They… they were throwing things…rocks and filth, eggs…I tried to tell them, I had no bread to give them. A man tried to pull me from the saddle. The Hound killed him, I think…his arm…" Her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth. "He cut off his arm."_

_Clegane lifted her to the ground. His white cloak was torn and stained, and blood seeped through a jagged tear on his left sleeve. "The little bird's bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage and see to that cut."_

_'A Clash of Kings'_

_George RR Martin._

I own nothing. These great characters belong to George RR Martin.

**The Hound.  
><strong>  
>He walked away towards his chamber, eating up the distance with his long stride.<p>

Now that they were taking care of the little bird and he knew that his destrier had returned safely to the stables, he could get some wine to quench his thirst. It was time to get drunk, to drink until his senses turned numb and then some more, until he passed out and stayed blessedly unconscious for a few hours.

He knew he could not hope for more than that, as dreamless sleep never lasted longer than a few hours before he woke up , drenched in sweat and fear, his heart hammering against his ribs and his eyes wide in horror. It always took him a few agonizing seconds to realize that Gregor was not coming to hurt him again, to torture him further. That was the way the Hound had woken up every single time since that blasted day in his long lost childhood. He had gotten used to it by now; not that he hated it any less.

He went into his chamber and sat on the narrow bed. The room was dark and unwelcoming, small enough to resemble a monk's cell, but he was nothing more than an ugly cur after all; he should be grateful he did not have to sleep in the open air, like a stray dog.

He had ordered his squire to get wine for him but the little shit had not arrived yet, so he took off his armor unaided. He grimaced at the sharp pain in his left arm but paid no mind to it, for it was just another one in a sea of wounds, both old and new. His skin was a crisscross of scars, the unmistakable signals of a life full of hardships and cruelty. The Hound had inflicted much damage but he had not survived unscathed himself.

The young squire turned up at last with two skins of sour red wine, as he had been told.

'You are wounded, ssser…' he said. The poor boy never knew what to call him.

'How many times do I have to tell you I'm no fucking ser, and now get the hell out of here!' the Hound bellowed, like the angry beast he was.

The boy scurried away leaving Sandor Clegane alone, as he always was at the end of the day, alone and drinking himself into oblivion, as if his life depended on it.

His thirst never seemed to quell. No matter how much wine he drunk, it was always there tormenting him and making him want more. Today it was even worse, as his blood kept rushing in his veins and the wild beating of his heart had not quieted yet.

Although he was brave to the point of recklessness, he was far from stupid. Alone and without a horse in the middle of the raging mob, he had been fully aware of how much danger he was facing as he got through the crowd in his senseless search for that silly little bird instead of struggling to find a way out and save himself.

Surrounded by all that furious scum he had felt utter fear, not for himself but for her, for that girl whose safety meant so much to him when it should mean nothing, whose delicacy affected him in a way he could not understand. Then he had seen her, still on horseback thanks to the Seven, and he cut his way towards her with a fury so great it made his blood boil, full of red fury towards those dirty hands that were throwing filth at her, towards those foul mouths that were insulting her with horrible words. They were trying to grab her and he had a very clear idea what they would do to that beautiful creature if they managed to lay their hands on her.

It did not happen because he was there to rid her of all of them. He was a killing machine and those rats soon realized to what extent he was deadly. Despite their advantage in numbers, they knew the tall man meant mortal danger as he advanced brandishing his bloody sword, with so much hate in his scarred face that it froze the blood in their veins. Instinctively, the mob retreated just enough for the warrior and the little lady to ride towards the safety of the Red Keep. Clegane had just flirted with death once again and got away with it, but that was something he had done countless times and, although surviving another miserable day seemed quite pointless to him, he was surprisingly good at that; he was a survivor through and through.

Alone in his room , with the sole company of memories and wine, the Hound was already drunk, but he needed to drink some more to forget the feel of her arms encircling his chest, her soft body pressed against his back, while … she clung to him. He swore when his body responded to those memories with fierce arousal.

Seven hells, he was an animal; he knew that much but the knowledge did not make him despise himself any less.

He stood up and, still naked from the waist up, he opened the door, banging it against the wall as he went out of his cell of a room. He stumbled blindly down the corridor, his mind reeling. He needed more wine to keep the sweet memories at bay, the same remedy he used to appease the horrible ones.

It was rather dark, as he was quite far from the next torch so ,when he turned the corner, he barged into someone in his haste and he made an unfortunate girl fall down on the stone floor. She whimpered in fear and pain.

He looked down at her and blinked twice in disbelief. It was none other than _his _little bird garbed as a serving wench.

'What the hell are you doing here?' he growled.

The redhead looked at him with an impish grin on her full lips. Her garish dress showed too much flesh. She had the full breasts and ample hips of a grown woman and, despite his drunken state, he realized that was not the lady Sansa. He also noticed that she was displaying too much skin to be a serving wench.

'Get out of my way, you slut,' he slurred, scowling deeply at her.

'Why are you so angry, ser?' She asked, looking at his naked torso and then at his crotch. Her gaze lingered on the bulge in his breeches, with so much impudence there was no doubt what her trade was.

'I am no ser,' he snarled, trying to drag his feet past her prone form. She stood up and ran until she caught up with him, then she grabbed his arm unceremoniously.

'You say you aren't no knight, but you have a knight's body. Fancy some company? A warrior needs some solace, doesn't he?'

He got rid of her grasp and glanced at her. He looked for whores himself when he wanted one; usually, they did not even dare approach him to offer their services, they were too afraid of him, just like everybody else. She must be new in town if she did not know who he was, as the Hound was too notorious in King's Landing for anybody there to talk to him like that.

She had spine, he had to give her that. She had not averted her eyes from his ruined face as women always did. Her gaze travelled somewhere else quickly enough, though, and it was roaming his powerful body with an expression akin to appreciation. She seemed to like what she saw. But he knew better, he was used to that. None of them could bear the hideousness of his face but sometimes whores looked at his body that way, as if they liked it. Some of them even tried to delude him into thinking they were attracted to his long limbs and powerful muscles.

Those were wasted efforts; it was no use pretending. He knew he was no Jaime Lannister. He was too tall, his shoulders were too broad and he was too brawny to be graceful. There was only one thing those women could feel attracted to: his coin.

He was about to scare her away but , suddenly, he changed his mind.

He noticed she had flaming red hair … _although it was lighter than hers._

She had blue eyes … _paler than hers, though _…, and a womanly body capable of taking most, if not all of him. So, he dragged her into an alcove and pushed her against the wall. He was in a drunken haze and, in his reeling mind , it felt as if the little bird had grown into a woman and welcomed his touch with her body pressed tightly against his, clinging to him. He knew better, though. Only whores let him embrace them, even in the dark. The truth hurt as much as it always did.

He turned her round and lifted her skirts; he did not want to see her blue eyes while he fucked her. She looked so much like _her_ and she was so utterly different at the same time...

In the dark, her hair seemed almost auburn … _just like hers._

His heart was thumping wildly and his blood felt like molten lava, scorching his veins. He howled like the wild dog he was and entered her from behind, in one single thrust. When she gasped, he covered her mouth with his huge hand; he did not want anyone to hear her cries. He knew she would cry; they always did.

**If you readers enjoyed this chapter, there will be a second one from Sansa Stark's point of view.**

**I'd very much appreciate getting reviews. Then I'd know if I'm going in the right direction.**


	2. So Much Need

He pumped his hips mercilessly, almost wildly, for so long that it felt for ever, thrusting into the woman's body hard and fast, relentlessly. He was no longer covering her mouth and, in the midst of his alcohol haze, he could hear her scream. He smirked, because, as alien as females seemed to him, he could still tell pain from pleasure in a woman's cries.

¡Oh gods, she was wet ...! he wondered at her response to him when he expected her to feel nothing but disgust. Perhaps he was as good as any in the dark, though, even better than some, as he was young and hard as iron. Maybe she thought he was not too bad, as long as he kept his ruined face hidden.

'Piss on her, piss on them all' he thought. He wished he no longer needed anyone, either male or female, in this shitty world. He was brimming with anger, despising himself for his need, hating her because he needed the likes of her while they hated his guts.

He Keep on holding her hips with iron fingers that would surely leave marks on her skin come the morrow. She had a luscious body, with rounded hips and heavy breasts, and she was responding to his thrusts with wanton little cries. What else could he ask for? And still, he needed more. It was madness but he wanted more. As he struggled hopelessly to find release, he knew that, although he could not face her blue-eyed gaze, he needed to feel her arms around him, her body clinging to his while he took her.

The girl gasped in surprise when she felt him pull away from her, still rock hard and pulsing as he was. Then, he turned her round, so that she was facing him, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Now he was holding her against his body, relishing the feel of her breasts against his bare chest. His skin was clammy with sweat and his muscles flexed as she grabbed his shoulders for leverage while she wrapped her legs round his waist.

His touch seemed surprisingly gentle compared to their rough rutting mere seconds earlier. He let her body slide downward against his until he was inside her again, then she heard him moan as he started rocking his hips in a slow motion, taking her so deep and slow, with so much care, that she thought he had forgotten who she was and what she was. She was sure that, in his mind, now he was embracing his lady love, not fucking a nameless whore in a dark alcove.

She could not remember the last time a man had held her thus, as if she was his lifeline. He had hidden his face in the crook of her neck, always avoiding her eyes, and with a rhythm unfailing and steady like the tide, he went on and on, making love to the woman in his dreams with everything he had, with everything he was.

Thus, they clung to each other some more time, avoiding each other' s eyes, but locked in an impossible lover's embrace.

He made her remember who she used to be and let her forget, if only for an instant, what she had become: a whore, just another whore in that strange city, and not that reckless girl, too pretty for her own good, who lost her way somehow, somewhere along the way. So, she clung to him a bit longer, marking his skin with her nails, gripping his waist with her thighs , holding on to him with all her strength until ,eventually, she let herself go, coming for the first time after so long that she could not remember when it had happened last.

When he sensed that unknown girl's pleasure contracting around him, with his eyes still tightly closed, he could pretend he was a man and not a battered dog nobody wanted.

He was approaching his release; he felt it so close that he bit his lower lip until he drew blood, to preven_t that forbidden name _from escaping his mouth. He spent himself inside a stranger's body and, it was all he could do not to turn his face searching for her lips to lock with his as he emptied himself inside her. He was so desperate that he craved a woman's kiss, any woman's kiss, it seemed. Apparently, he was pathetic when he was not brutish, and that was hardly an improvement.

In a heartbeat, the moment was gone. Now he noticed the chill of the dank corridor and became aware of his weary limbs, the pain in his wounded arm and the weight of the woman's body resting against his. He felt himself softening at last. He was sweaty, cold and tired but he felt calm, his physical need now satisfied, at least for a while.

He lifted his head and looked to his left, still holding the whore's body in his arms, their groins still joined. His eyes wandered down the corridor until they saw something unexpected, something impossible in that usually deserted corridor. He saw the slim form of a young lady garbed in ivory silk and Myrish lace; long auburn hair fell over her shoulders and her gaze was a deep shade of blue.

He could not really see the colour of her hair and her eyes in the dark but he knew them by heart.

Damn his luck! Why did she have to be there in that deserted corridor?

Fuck! It was her, _his little bird_.

He did not know how long she had been there watching him, but there was something he did know: She had been there for far too long. She held his gaze for an instant and then turned round and started running down the corridor, her hair fanning out behind her like a shiny fall.


	3. So Much Pain

Sansa ran, as fast as her legs could carry her ; she didn't even know if she was going the right direction , the only thing on her mind was getting away. She would die if he caught her. Either she would die of shame, or he would kill her. Once, he had threatened to kill her if she told anyone how he got his scars so, what would he do now? He must be furious.

Oh, gods, she had not meant to ... to watch him , she had seen them by chance, him and... that woman, that red-haired woman.

She run fast but it did not do. Soon, she heard fast footfalls coming closer and ,before she could turn into another corridor, he caught up with her and grabbed her arm. His grip on her elbow was painful, his fingers were like iron. Unbidden, the image of those long fingers digging into that woman's hips came into her mind, and she blushed furiously.

He made her turn around towards him but she could not look at his face, and this time it was not because of his scars, it was because she could not face those eyes of his, not now.

She waited, not daring to lift her gaze, just waiting for him to speak, to say anything, to scold her, to shout at her; anything but that suffocating silence. He kept quiet, though, and that was worse than whatever he could have said.

She lifted her eyes, bit by bit, until they were level with his ripped stomach, and then his broad chest. She could see the way it expanded with every breath he took ... and she could not help but notice all those rippling muscles so clearly defined under his swarthy skin; his skin, so different from her own and so marred with scars. Then, she noticed an ugly wound in his left arm, a fresh wound.

'You are wounded, ser.'

He snorted and spoke at last, his voice as harsh as ever, slurring his words as if he had been drinking again; but there was something else in his voice: so much weariness, as if he was infinitely tired.

'I'm no bloody sir and you know that, little bird. Now, let's go, I'll escort you to your cage' he hesitated for an instant. 'Wait a moment, I'll be back ... and don't you dare move until I return.'

She waited there for what seemed a long time until she heard footsteps again and someone approached her, but it was not the Hound; it was a woman, the woman she had seen ... with him.

She came up to Sansa and stopped close to her, only for an instant, but those pale blue eyes looked into hers with a strange intensity that made her feel uneasy, because those were eyes which had seen too much, which seemed much older than her years, disenchanted eyes which knew too much. Then, the red-haired woman went on her way, glancing at Sansa once more as she left, with a knowing smile curving her sensuous lips.

'Farewell, little dove. May the old gods protect you from harm in this godsforsaken land.'

'Thank you, ... my lady,' Sansa said, not knowing how to address her. Her gown was too gaudy for a lady, but there was a sort of elegance in her pose, in the way she moved.

'Oh, no, pretty thing, don't waste your courtesies on the likes of me. I surely am no lady'- the mellow voice replied from the distance, followed by a peal of laughter, as clear and charming as the chime of distant bells.

Sansa did not have to wait long until the Hound came back walking briskly, fully clothed but rather tousled, as if he had dressed in haste ; the left sleeve of his tunic was stained with blood from his fresh wound.

'Come on, girl. It's high time you were in your room' he said, his voice low, but extremely cold and distant.

They walked side by side, in silence; the girl on his right, as she always did, to avoid the scarred part of his face. His visage was set in a grim expression, sulking and brooding. That was much his usual self, in fact. He usually looked aloof and surly, specially after he had been drinking, but it was his obstinate silence that made her cringe.

She gave him sideways glances once or twice but he kept on looking forward, ignoring her and saying nothing. From that angle his face seemed normal, harsh-featured and with a hook of a nose but not hideous. From that angle he looked only human and now she realized she had never thought of him as such.

She wondered if the red-haired woman was his paramour. The way they had looked, embraced like that, while he ...while they ...; she averted her eyes from him, blushing furiously.

Her room seemed to be farther than ever and she was eager to get away from him. He did not seem to notice her distress, for he said nothing. Maybe he did not care if she... if anybody saw him doing ... those things. After all, he was brutish and wild, like a beast. Suddenly, her need to be away from him was overwhelming.

Eventually, they were in her chamber's corridor, and she rushed as much as she could without being uncourteous.

He opened the door and stepped aside to let her in but, when she was going to close her door and shelter herself in her room, he stopped her. She looked up at him, at his face, beholding both the human side and the monstrous one. Apart from the ever-present anger, there was something else in his expression, something she could not grasp but made her flinch all the same.

His ruthless fingers held her chin and made her look him in the eye. She was trembling and his grey eyes were bleak and desolate. In his gaze, a maelstrom of emotions she could not name mingled with that everlasting anger that frightened her so much. She was just a girl and there was too much in those eyes for her to understand; perhaps she never could , not even in a million years, but there was something she could recognise and relate to: pain, a hopeless disconsolate sorrow.

'Don't wander the corridors unescorted, and much less in the middle of the night. Don't you ever do that again' he rasped, his voice unbearably harsh. 'Some bastard could catch you, drag you into a corner and have his way with you. You hear me?

She nodded, fat teardrops running down her cheeks as she kept holding his unyielding stare.

'And never go to that part of the keep again; that's dangerous, it's not for you. That place's only for the scum, for rabid curs like me and stinking whores like that woman you saw. You saw us? Oh yes, you did, and you enjoyed the view for quite a while, didn't you?

Sansa just could not breathe.

'I could do the same to you, any day' he snarled savagely, baring his teeth, which were surprisingly white, as white as a dog's. 'You want to know what it feels like, to have my dirty hands upon you?'

'No, ser. Please!' She was sobbing uncontrollably, horrified and shocked at his brutality.

'Please?' he mocked her, his laugh a mirthless rumble which made her shiver- 'Look at me, girl. Have you seen me well? What do I look like?'

She did not reply and kept looking at him in silent horror.

'I know, I know, you're too courteous to tell me but I already know what I look like. For years, I have seen disgust on people 's faces when their eyes fell upon this ruin. I look like a monster and that's what I am. Make no mistake : I do my work, and I'm as good as any and better than most at doing my work, but apart from that, I'm a beast. So, don't roam the corridors at night again because I may catch you and show you what it feels like to be pinned against a wall. It may be me or any other beast; there are plenty in this bloody keep and, though I'm the nastiest piece , there are others every bit as perverted.

Sansa whimpered and sobbed even more violently. She feared she would faint if he kept holding her face so near his, if he kept saying horrible things to her.

'But ... you helped me. You saved me from those men, from the mob ...'

He shook her shoulders violently, until her teeth chattered. 'And I hope I didn't waste my efforts. So, keep away from danger or I'll ... I'll ... Just keep safe or you'll regret it. You heard me, little bird?

'Yes, I will, ser ' she whispered, weeping quietly now.

He nodded, still holding her shoulders, spanning her shoulder blades with his big hands. He was looking at her intently, with that expression she could not comprehend. Then, he released her, retreated slowly and , without saying a word, turned around and left her, alone but safe in the shelter of her room.


	4. Hopeless Longing

Sansa could not sleep, the Hound's spiteful snarl came to her mind over and over. He had spoken to her with so much hatred and cruelty, he had frightened and threatened her with so much harshness that it made her cringe.

... And the crude words he had said to her... her cheeks burned every time she thought of those words and the images they brought to her mind ... unwanted images of his back and arms in riveting motion, his muscles tense and rippling , his damp hair clinging to his nape and covering his face like a black curtain, his bare skin glistening with sweat and splattered with blood as he thrust inside the woman's body ... inside the whore's body. He had said the woman was a whore; he had used that nasty word.

The images were branded in Sansa's brain. She could see them over and over : his broad back, his narrow hips, those big, strong hands holding on to the woman's hips...

When he had pulled from the woman's body, Sansa had glimpsed his manhood for an instant and she had gasped as the dull ache between her legs intensified. Even now, in the solitude of her room,she felt wet and uncomfortable at the thought. Instinctively, she pressed her thighs together but the ache would not go.

Oh! The way he had spoken to her! He truly was awful. They called him dog for a reason, because he was harsh and brutal. Moreover, he was evil and perverted and had the gall to admit it. She did not know why but, after the initial reaction of panic and revulsion when she had first seen him, she had come to think of him as honorable in his own way; the only one in the king's guard who ever offered her a helping hand. Now she knew better. She was alone, completely alone in a nest of vipers.

The first light of dawn was about to break when the night's disturbing memories finally started to fade. She lulled herself to sleep by humming comforting songs of gallant knights and their fine ladies. At least, in her dreams there was no place for cruel bloodthirsty princes and deceitful queens ... or for nightmarish faces and threatening monsters.

* * *

><p>Sandor Clegane lay on his bed's lumpy mattress, as drunk as he could possibly be. All the other king's guards lived in the White Tower but not him. He was not one of them and they despised him every bit as much as he despised them.<p>

No other king's guard slept in a dingy little cell or left his door unbarred while he slept, thus putting himself in a vulnerable position. The Hound did that all the time, though. More often than not, he drank until he forgot himself and he had spent many a night out in the open, sleeping under a tree or even in a ditch. When drunk, he was careless. Although he knew that one day his recklessness would cost him his life, he could not care less.

The red-haired woman approached the bed and watched the sleeping man in the faint light of a fading candle. His bare skin gleamed in the candlelight. His clothes were scattered on the floor and he lay stark naked over the bedclothes, which were stained with blood. He was snoring softly, and his chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Feather lightly, the woman run a fingertip over his collarbone, and then lower, until she caressed a small masculine nipple. It stood out immediately at her touch, and he just jerked slightly but did not wake up. She spread her palm over his ribcage and noticed every bone and muscle under her fingers as her touch continued lower and lower, until she reached his hipbone. He was surprisingly lean for such a large and heavily muscled man. Too often, he forgot to eat, as he was more intent on getting drunk.

She gazed at his manhood. It seemed less impressive now that it was at rest but it still looked powerful, like every inch of his body. She sighed, remembering his brutal strength, the feeling of him moving inside her, the way he had made her come. Also, she could remember his scorn, his fury and spite. Ruefully, she thought that, one day, he could have made a fine man for his woman. Instead, he was a broken embittered loser, like so many others in that blasted city. There was no hope in that city, not for that man Clegane, not for her, not for anyone. She wished she had never come south, that she had never met this man.

She felt desire for his body ,though, and she had not felt so much desire in a long, long time. She let her fingertips glide over his hipbone, and then fingered his pubic hair, brushing his cock fleetingly with her knuckles. The sight of so much power exposed naked and vulnerable before her was strangely arousing. She smiled at the thought that she could either take his life, or her pleasure of him; it would be just as easy.

The decision was simple, for she wanted him with burning intensity. So, she undressed and joined him on the narrow bed, bringing her body flush against his side.

Still immersed in a heavy alcohol-induced slumber, he felt the warm contact of another skin against his, soft hands caressing his body and... Oh, gods, velvety lips brushing his. He opened his mouth like a drowning man to the breath of air that could save him and moaned at the feeling of another mouth over his. He did not know how to kiss, but tried to return the soft movements of those lips with his own.

In his dreaming state there were no hideous scars, nor regrets ,no worries. He did not have to dread the disgust he always inspired, the sickening revulsion . He turned towards the kiss, searching for warmth, for skin, and felt soft breasts against his chest, hard nipples grazing his skin. He must be dead and in heaven because he had never known anything like this in life.

There had never been a woman in his bed, only whores in cheap brothels, streetwalkers and camp followers. He had only rutted in dark alleys or in the fields, like an animal. He usually drank and gambled most of his pay but , when he had coin, he fucked in some filthy room, always in the dark. Other men wanted to see what they were fucking but he did not; he preferred not to see the look of disgust in the whores' faces.

The woman pressed her body against his while she kissed him, and he groaned at the assault of her tongue inside his mouth. His manhood came to life in her hand while their tongues entwined and his dazed brain could only take so much pleasure. One of her hands took his and curved his fingers over a rounded breast , showing him how to fondle it, how to caress it.

He complied, although he had never taken his time on such things. Until know, sex had only been a race towards completion for him, nothing to do with that, with her touch, her kiss, her warmth. Her mouth left his for a moment and he grunted in protest.

While she gasped for breath , he could barely breathe, but did not care. So, he run his long fingers through the silk of her hair and, tugging gently, brought her lips to his again. She chuckled and kissed him , amazed at the gentleness she had found in a man who seemed to have none.

His mind was dazzled, between sleep and wakefulness, in a blessed limbo without regrets, self loathing or fear, as he learned from her how to kiss , how to caress, and how to enjoy another' s touch . That was heaven and could not last.

She could not believe how much she wanted him. She had had countless men. Some had been handsome, others homely; some had been skilled and experienced and others new in the arts of love, but it was a long, long time since she had last wanted a man so much. Hungrily, she went down on him and took him in her mouth.

His eyes rolled back in sheer pleasure and he cried out, grabbing handfuls of her soft hair in his hands, and his hips lifted off the mattress in an instinctive primal reaction. But then, something seemed to snap inside him; his eyes popped open and he roused into a startled wakefulness. He felt chilled to the bone and utterly scared. He had no idea where he was or who he was with, so he pushed her away from him and threw her to the floor with shocking violence.

On all fours, she tried to crawl away from him, but he grabbed her hair and lifted her from the floor. When she saw his eyes, they looked bloodshot and murderous. It still took him a while to grasp reality.

'What are you doing here, you stupid slut. I could have killed you! I owe you nothing, I think I payed more than enough for your services' he growled.

'I did not come to reclaim anything, what I was giving you now was a gift'

'Why?'- he rasped, dangerously, pressing her windpipe with his iron fingers. 'What did I do to deserve ... a gift from you?' His voice dripped with derision.

'I wanted you, that's all. I wanted to feel you inside me again.'

'I guess you have fallen for my pretty face.' He laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound.

He picked up her gown from the floor and threw it at her. 'Get out, now! Never come here again. When I want a whore, I'll look for one, I don't want to see you here again.'

'Anyone could have come into your room and rip you throat open, you left your door unbarred'- she whimpered, gasping for air and rubbing her throat.

'That's none of your concern, woman. Now, get out,' he said, pushing her out of the room and slamming the heavy door shut. Then, he lay down on the bed again and curled up, trembling like a child, knowing that this time sleep would not come.

* * *

><p>In her room, Sansa dreamed. In her dreams, a gallant knight escorted her to her chamber and went into the room with her. She could not see his face, but she knew he was the Knight of Flowers. He approached her and kissed her with petal soft lips. She entwined her fingers in his beautiful hair and kissed him back. Then, they were in bed like man and wife, naked, and he caressed her with tenderness, as she had always imagined her husband would do. She felt safe and content.<p>

She did not know how but, suddenly, something changed, she felt a pool of heat between her legs and noticed that the slender body of the Knight of Flowers had turned much taller, his chest was broader and his skin darker. She buried her fingers in his long mane of hair but the wavy brown locks were now lank and surprisingly soft. She knew something was wrong. What they were doing was forbidden and dangerous.

She knew that the man between her legs was not her husband, but he poised himself at her opening and silently challenged her to stop him ... and she wanted to but she could not. She could not recognise his face, either, but she knew he was dangerous and was not meant for her. She could not face his cruel eyes as he entered her and took her maidenhead. There was no pain when he breached her, though; only a maddening ache.

Startled, Sansa Stark woke up, alone in her bed. There was no man holding her, neither the Knight of Flowers nor the tall, dark stranger. She was sure what she was doing was wrong, but her hand gingerly reached for the damp ache between her thighs and she touched herself, as she had never done before, trying to ease that bitter-sweet ache. Her eyes remained closed, but the image of long, strong fingers touching her just there, sent a surge of exquisite pleasure to her core.


	5. Good Bye, Little Bird

The girl was standing on the ramparts walk, all alone. Lately, he had become her shadow. He told himself than he was watching her for her own good. She was no longer the king's betrothed and would never become his queen, but she was in need of protection more than ever, specially now that the little monster had all the power to inflict his cruelty upon her any time it suited his mood.

The wind was blowing, and her auburn hair rippled over her shoulders in fiery waves that were dazzling him with their beauty. The skirts of her gown billowed around her and clung to her form, enhancing smooth curves that belied her age.

He stood there transfixed, his eyes squinting at her loveliness, as if strained by blinding sunlight. From afar, he admired her perfect profile, her unblemished skin, her long elegant neck, her graceful hands ... She was more beautiful than any woman ever had the right to be and she was no more than a girl. One day, she would become an achingly beautiful woman but he did not think he would live to see that day. It was just as well, because his heart would shatter if he had to see her abused and scared out of her wits one day longer. Either way, his heart would end up broken, for he had gotten used to her presence and treasured every moment he could look at her, even if it was from afar.

He could not recall the exact moment he had become obsessed with that girl. He snorted, and inwardly laughed at the pathetic stalker he had become. He glared murderously at all the men who dared stare at her with leering glances but he knew he was the worst of them all ; the one who shocked, scared and disgusted her more than any other.

He wanted to believe he was not like them, that he only wanted to keep her safe, to preserve her innocence, her gentleness and her compassion, but he was every bit as revolting as any of them ,and even worse, because she was always on his mind ... and he dreamt of her, every night.

In his dreams, she touched his face and kissed him gently on the lips. She sang beautiful songs only for him and smiled , as if she was his lady and he was her knight ... _He, her knight_. He, who had repeatedly rejected knighthood and mocked everything it meant.

He never touched her in his dreams, he only worshipped her, but when morning came, he felt he was just as disgusting as all the other leering wrecks.

He hopelessly struggled to banish her from his mind and, night after night, conjuring images of lewd women in a futile attempt to forget her, he stroked himself to relief, but no amount of lonely climaxes seemed to give him respite. When he finally fell asleep out of exhaustion, he saw her angel face behind his closed lids and his heart bled.

His already gaunt features were becoming more haggard with every passing day and his ribs and bones were becoming noticeable under his skin; but food was not the nourishment he craved, it was her beauty, her unattainable beauty. He was not even aware of his body's hunger when his soul was starved.

As for her, she was both innocent and cruel in her ignorance and averted her eyes every time he was nearby. She always tried to avoid him since the day he had become his saviour to shock her later and horrify her beyond measure.

He scoffed a muffled laugh at the bitter irony; it felt both pitiful and ludicrous that, now that she had unwittingly become the centre of his world, now that he was dying for her, she no longer tried to hide how repulsed she was by the mere sight of him. He inwardly thanked the gods he refused to believe in, because nobody noticed; nobody knew he was burning from the inside out.

He gripped his sword hilt with so much force that his knuckles went white, as he restrained himself from leaving the shadows where he was lurking like a coward. His other hand clenched, and his nails dug cruelly into his palm's flesh until the skin broke and then harder still,oblivious to the pain.

The inner suffering was far more cruel, but there was no remedy for that and there would never be. In time, he would learn to live with it, just as he had learned to live with all his frustrations, his hatred and his need for retribution. He had willed himself to survive the unimaginable with the sole purpose of killing his brother one day. Thus, he would take revenge for his shattered life, for the boy who had cried for justice and found none. He was well aware that he could fail and that would mean a painful death, but he had always thought he was ready to face that ... until now. Now, something had changed ... he yearned for something else. He... he had found that _little bird_ and he longed to protect her, and see her grow into the fine woman she was meant to be. He could not hope for more, as his fate had been sealed the night he had gotten his future stolen from him. He was doomed, but he could still yearn for what he could not have.

On the other side of the river, an army awaited, and in a matter of hours he would have to fight and kill once more; Maybe, he would die. He was there because he wanted to see her one more time and perhaps ... say good bye.

He left the shadows that engulfed him and walked into the sunshine, towards the girl that made his heart lurch. She heard footsteps behind her and turned swiftly, then she gasped at his sudden appearance.

'Oh, I didn't know you were here, my lord.'

He wanted to beg her not to call him _'my lord'_ , but Sandor Clegane never begged, not even for his life. So, he remained silent, towering impressively over her, though she was rather tall, even for a grown woman.

The silence stretched between them till it made her feel uncomfortable, so she lowered her gaze and glanced at his hands, his big powerful hands. He was absentmindedly caressing the hilt of his sword with his right hand and, at the sight of his long fingers gliding over the grip, her stomach fluttered. Suddenly, that strange warmth was there again, between her thighs.

He stepped nearer and she became acutely aware of his closeness. Then, he lifted one hand and grasped her chin with his thumb and index fingers to make her look into his eyes. He was so close to her now that she had to strain her neck to look up at him, he was so tall. It was as if she could feel the warmth of his body as the breeze brought his scent to her nostrils. His scent felt strange to her but she was not sure it was unpleasant; she just knew that the ache between her thighs intensified the closer he stood.

'I just came to ... to watch over you while I still can and ... to make sure you aren't doing nothing stupid again, girl.' he rasped, as harsh as ever.

'Why?' she asked, unnerved at the things his rumbling voice and his towering presence were doing to her.'Are you leaving, ser?'

'No, I'm not going anywhere, girl.' he chuckled. 'In fact, I've nowhere to go. On the contrary, Lord Stannis is going to pay this city a visit and I think he's about to call, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but it won't take him much longer to strike.'

'Why are you saying this to me, then? You'll stay in King's Landing and protect the king, won't you? ... and the queen, and ...'

'And ... you?' he murmured lowly, his breath caressing her face as if with invisible fingers. His hand released her chin and then hovered over her hair, as if wanting to touch her, but not quite daring. 'Remember what I am? ... A dog, and I'm ready to die protecting my masters. But surely a lady like you would not want and ugly dog like me around her ... or would you, little bird?

'I would,' she answered promptly.'I would rather have you by my side than any other king's guard. You ... you are the only one who ever helped me. You ... you ... saved me.'

He lowered his hand without ever touching her hair,but some of the auburn locks that were rippling in the breeze caressed his retreating hand, making him shiver in the evening sunshine. His Adam's apple moved in his throat as he swallowed hard, and he leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing the top of her head in a half imagined kiss she never noticed.

' And I'd protect you,' he muttered to himself, so softly that she was not sure he had even spoken. '... with my life.'

'Did you say anything?' she asked. 'I could not hear you.'

He shook his head.'Stay in your bedchamber, little bird, until everything's over. Bar the door, hide yourself in you room and pray.'

'I'll pray for you,' she said.

He shook his head once more, breathing with difficulty. 'Don't pray for me, child,' he rasped. 'I want nothing to do with gods and I don't fear death. There's no way it can be worse than this shitty life.'

' I'll still pray for you,' she replied. 'And don't say those horrible things or the gods will get angry and punish you.'

'And then what? Will I be killed or get maimed any worse than I already am? I'll take my life then, and that'll be the end of it,' he replied, his harsh voice full of resentment.

'But that's a sin,' she protested.

'And I'm an unrepentant sinner,' he snarled, bitterness permeating his voice.'Make no mistake, girl; I'm already paying for my actions, but my punishment started before I could understand what sinning was...

' I'll pray that you find solace in the gods' forgiveness and mercy,' she said, fearing that he would mock her but he did not. He just watched her intently, as if looking for something; she did not know what.

' Mercy, forgiveness, solace... What grand words for such a pretty little thing! You still have to learn so much, girl ! I wish I could spare you the knowledge but that's beyond my reach. I'm a simple man; fighting, killing ... surviving another day; gambling, drinking and fucking ... That's my life. I know nothing of grand empty words and don't want to know. They are all lies.'

Startled by his bluntness, she took a step back and stumbled. He quickly grabbed her arm and stopped her from falling.

'Careful, girl, or one day you'll break you neck. I won't always be around to save you.'

She looked up at him, with a helpless expression on her face, and he realised in awe that the idea of his absence disturbed her more than his uncomfortable presence.

A gust of wind ruffled their hair and clothes and her skirts whirled around his long legs in a strangely intimate caress. Her hair fanned around her head in disarray and it mingled for an instant with his black locks. He unconsciously lowered his eyelids and savoured the moment with painful relish. He would never know her touch, this was as close to her as he would ever be and he knew it. He opened his eyes again only to drown in the deep blue brightness of her eyes. His heart skipped a beat and he helplessly lost himself in her gaze.

Then, they heard noisy footsteps and the sound of several voices approaching. Sandor Clegane reluctantly parted from the _little bird_ and she hugged herself, suddenly deprived of his warmth. All of a sudden, the wind felt bitter cold.

'I'm leaving now,' he said, his voice quite strained. 'You'd better not walk alone, not even in the light of day ... and remember what I told you, girl; I won't always be around to save you, so beware. Don't trust anyone and hide, hide until everything's over. You have to survive all this shit. You hear me, child? You must ...' he turned, and left her.

As he walked away from her, he thought he could sense her gaze on his back. His hands clenched and it was all he could do not to turn round, walk up to her and embrace her. He did not turn round, thought. He knew that would be insane, a foolishness she would not welcome. Nobody should see him so close to her, either. He must go, now.

'Good bye, little bird,' he whispered when she could not hear him, without even glancing back.

She followed him with her gaze as he left, looking at his tall frame as he moved away, feeling more and more forlorn the further he went. She still had ser Dontos, her Florian, but in the midst of the nightmare her life had turned into, the Hound's fierceness somehow felt strangely comforting.

On her way back she crossed paths with three approaching guards and she could feel their leering eyes on her breasts as she hustled past them. She tried not to hear the lewd comments they were mumbling as she run away.

She could trust no one. She had to survive this nightmare. As he had said, she must.


	6. The Path to Hell

The wait seemed to go on for ever. Although the sky was already pitch black,the troops on the other side of the river were still biding their time and Sandor Clegane was becoming increasingly uneasy and restless with every passing hour. He had never been one to wait patiently and he felt his blood boiling as his fingers itched to draw his sword and put an end to that maddening stillness. He needed a fight, he was thirsty for blood and violence. For hours he had roamed the battlements, brooding and silent, his tall intimidating figure startling the guards who stood watch as they waited, like him, for the inevitable.

He felt edgy and strongly craved the comfort he found in wine ... wine, intoxicating and dark, like blood.

An unbearable thirst was nearly choking him and made his mouth feel dry as if full of dust, but he knew all he could drink was water and that insipid liquid was unable to appease his need. He told himself he must not give in to his craving, he knew he had to remain sober as every instinct he had told him the hour was approaching and he must be alert, ready to fight and kill once again. He must be ready to die as well; that, he knew all too well.

He felt it in his guts : this was not going to be just another battle for any of them, this was going to mean survival or destruction for his masters, the Lannisters, and also for him, whose fate was linked to theirs. Still, war did not frighten him; on the contrary: being an outstanding killer was his only value. He was designed for fighting; he was all bone, sinew and muscle and there was no softness or weakness in his hardened warrior body. But that was all he was, a killing device, nobody thought of him as anything else, not even himself. So many years being good for nothing but destruction made his life pointless except when delivering death sword in hand.

It was not facing pain and death that troubled him, and yet ... it was so long since he had felt so anxious. He gripped his sword hilt searching for comfort in its familiar contact and wondered whether this would be his final battle because, despite all his valour and determination, this time he felt he was not ready to quit living, not just yet.

A long time ago, he had taken a decision: he was not to survive long past his prime. His was a barren life, with no land and no woman; without children or a future to look forward to, so all he could wish for was a quick death when he was still strong and capable. He had no desire to live long enough to become one of those wretches who crowded every sept stairs begging for a crust of bread and a gulp of wine. Most of them where horribly maimed or scarred and looked barely human. Fighting and dying did not make him flinch but ,whenever he saw one of those poor beggars, his blood seemed to curdle in his veins and he had to look elsewhere. That was a sight he could not stand: the sight of his own bleak future.

He had thought for years that the day his brother died by his hand could just as well be his last. Once his sole aim in life was fulfilled, he could accompany his brother to hell and make sure he stayed there. Killing and then dying ... he could do that; it would be clean and simple, but this might not be what fate reserved for him. After all, Sandor Clegane had never been a lucky man, so he could not expect his demise to be easy.

Anyway, if he survived Gregor for too long, he could gather all his coin and meagre belongings, sell every piece of armour, every weapon he possessed but his sword, and find a hole to while away his days, doing nothing but whoring and drowning his memories in alcohol until he drank himself to death. Sometimes, he had even wondered how long it would take for a strong man like him to kill himself in that fashion.

He was not afraid of dying and yet ... he was not ready to leave, not today. He still had to kill his brother, he still had to feel ... he snarled, despising himself for giving in to ... he did not know what ...

Wanting ... he could not afford that ... he was nothing more than a hound, and dogs just served their masters and accepted the scraps and bones they threw at them under the table. That was all there was for the Hound and he knew it.

And yet ...

He shook his head. Self-derisively, he thought he was becoming humourless and that his own company was increasingly tiring and boring. He was sick of himself and his own dark musings, so he approached a pair or guards who were drinking from a wineskin and took it from their hands without a word. They opened and closed their mouths, gaping like stupid fish but the Hound's glare was enough to make them remain silent.

'You're standing watch, you bloody idiots, aren't you? So, no wine for you' he growled, looming over them.

'Yes, ser'

'I'm no fucking ser. I'm the king's dog. I'm no ... fucking ... ser. You heard me?'

'Yes, ss...'

'Better.'

He resumed his walk up and down the battlements until he could take no more pointless waiting. He was almost positive the city would not be attacked during the night and he was not on duty anyway, so he thought he might as well retire until dawn and rest for a few hours. So, he turned back and ordered the guards to send someone and wake him if something was amiss. After all, it was folly to wait endlessly without getting any sleep. At least, he could rest and save some strength for the impending battle.

He went into the keep and walked towards his chamber, his mood as dark and gloomy as the damp stone walls which seemed to close in on him. He crossed paths with a few people on his way but he paid no mind to any of them, not until he glimpsed a long mane or bright red hair. It was the pretty whore he had fucked some time ago, the same who had dared enter his room uninvited and touch his naked body while he was barely conscious.

He stirred at the blurry memory of her hands all over his skin ... he could hardly believe how she had gone down on him ... the feel of her mouth on his cock had seemed a pleasure worth dying for ... until he had regained full consciousness and felt so confused and bewildered, so shockingly vulnerable that he could take it no longer. The Hound never gave in to another, never relinquished control and his helpless vulnerability under her ministrations had scared him.

He had opened his eyes to gaze into darkness black as pitch and did not know who was sucking his life off him while his brain and even his bones seemed to melt with pleasure. He had reached out his trembling hands then, grabbing hair so silky it made his fingers quiver, and he had shouted to the night, defeated by an unknown creature. He could not take it though, it was too much for him. If he did not throw that ghost out or his nightmare he would come undone, unmanned, and that, he could not take.

Now he knew better, there had been no nightmare and no ghost. There had been only a woman with him, in his bed, a woman who had claimed she wanted him; she had blown his mind with pleasure and said she wanted him. He had not believed her for a moment but now her lies did not seem to matter. He wanted to forget, to stop thinking and just feel good. He probably had imagined it but he thought he could remember her kissing him, on the mouth, something no one had ever done before ...

Once, he had paid for a kiss but had been unable to take it. The look of revulsion in the woman's face when he was about to close his eyes and press his lips to hers had dissuaded him for ever.

The red-haired girl hurried and tried to avoid his gaze but he followed her. He took hold of her wrist and pulled her into an even darker corridor, then continued walking briskly, making her run to keep up with his long stride.

'Ser... leave me be. I'll never bother you again. Please, let me go' she begged.

'No' was his harsh reply. He was intent on taking her, no matter what she said.

'Why, ser? Why won't you let me go? What do you want from me?'

He laughed, a harsh cruel laugh that made her wince. Unexpectedly, he stopped and she bumped into his body, which was hard and unyielding like a wall. He grabbed her shoulders with his huge hands and pulled her flush against his chest. She squirmed but he was far too strong; it was useless.

'Look a me!' he bellowed.

She obeyed, trembling in his arms, and looked into his ruined face. Under the unforgiving light of a nearby torch, his scars looked ghastly and his angry eyes menacing and dangerous. Her heart was beating wildly and her laboured breathing made her chest lift and heave under his scrutiny. His eyes drank the sight of her breasts, as her neckline was so low that he could even glimpse her nipples from the vantage point his towering height gave him.

'What could I want from you? You're a whore, are you not?' he rasped, unconsciously licking his lips.

She remained silent, gaping at his grim visage, absolute fear in her blue eyes.

'Answer me. What are you?' he growled in her ear, his breath sending a surge of unwanted warmth through her blood current which seemed to reach every fibre of her body. Her knees felt suddenly week. She did not want to feel fear, she did not want to feel desire either, but he inspired both in her.

'I'm a woman, you beast' she answered at last. Her voice wavered far more than she would have liked but facing him felt good. He might kill her but she would not let him treat her like shit. She was sick of men treating her as if she was the scum of the earth. There was an army on the other side of the river; she might not survive the days to come and she refused to let this man humiliate her; not this man, not today, not ever.

'Well, woman' he replied, clearly surprised by her bold reaction but apparently not angry at being called a beast. 'I may be mistaken but the last time I saw you, you were selling your body for coin. That makes you a whore. Am I wrong?'

'Yes, I sell my body for coin and you may call me whatever pleases you, Hound, but I can still decide what I sell and who I sell it to' she said, lifting her chin in defiance. 'Or are you going to rape me?

'Rape you?' he asked. 'What for? You're a harlot and I want to fuck you ... again. l can pay the price.'

'No' she said with conviction, to his utter amazement.

'No?' he asked, understanding nothing.

'You heard well. No' she insisted.

'Why not?'

'I refuse. I won't let you take me.'

He pulled her closer, grinding his hips into hers, his gaze intent on her face. ' Your nipples are hard and I bet your cunt is already wet . You say you don't want me but you seem to like my cock.'

'You don't understand anything, do you? I want you, I've already told you. I showed you that night in your bed and you refused to believe me' she answered, holding his gaze, refusing to be intimidated by him.

'Why the hell would you want me? Are you short sighted? Have you seen may face? I'm hideous' he growled dangerously.

Yes, you are, but your face is just scarred. I've seen far worse: bloated, stunted, foul smelling and purulent bodies. You're scarred but you're young, strong and very much alive. Don't pity yourself so much.

That managed to infuriate him, he crashed her against his chest with so much force that she could hardly breathe. 'Give me your cunt, then. Let me thrust inside you. I'll pay for it.'

'No.'

'Why the hell not?'

'I've finished work for the day. No more work.'

'You said you wanted me.'

'And I do, but I don't want you to treat me like a whore.'

'How else should I treat you? You've been with lots of men and every one of them took you for what you are. Why not me?'

'What do you know about me, Sandor Clegane? Nothing at all. I did not feel like a whore when I came for you. I didn't feel like a whore when I lay on your bed and touched you... when I showed you how to touch me... or when I kissed you. It was your first kiss, wasn't it?

'No!', he snarled, digging his fingers painfully into her flesh. I didn't ask you to come to my bed, and that wasn't ... my first bloody kiss.

'Oh, yes, it was. I knew it was ... I know a lot about men. I'm a whore, remember?'

'Take my money ... I want to be inside you ... now.'

'No! I don't want your money but I can find you another girl to warm your bed.'

'I never take them in my bed and it's you that I want, not any other girl.'

She smiled at his self delusion. He very much wanted another girl, one who would never look at him and see him for what he was. 'Why me? What do you want from me?' she goaded him.

'You're driving me mad, woman.' he murmured, thrusting his hips against hers, making her feel him and desire him. 'I want to be inside you and fuck you until you come for me, like you did that night. '

'Do you want me to kiss you as well?' she whispered, knowing how much it hurt him.

'Yes...' he answered, very softly, painfully admitting his need.

'And do you want me to take you in my mouth?'

'Oh... yes, I want that too ... ' he groaned, leaning into her helplessly, his forehead resting against hers. 'Will you do that ... again ... asking for nothing in return?

Yes, I will. I'll go down on you and suck your cock until you weep but on one condition: I won't be your whore and you'll let me fuck you ... I want to straddle your hips and ride you. You think you can take that, Hound? Will you let a woman take her pleasure of you and then look at your face while you come? '

He gasped, he was not ready for that. She could see he was shocked.

'I cannot ... I can't, ' he mumbled, his large body leaning further into her slight frame, his erection painfully hard against her belly. 'You are asking too much of me, I don't know how to be with a woman. I've never slept with one, not ever. I've only paid for brief moments of release, nothing more.

'I know, but I won't have you any other way, Hound. There are other bed warmers in this keep who will accept your money for a safe hump in the dark. Is that what you want? I'll find one for you ...'

She felt him shake his head in refusal. 'No, stay with me ... until dawn.'

'You won't push me around and beat me?'

'No, I won't . You have my word.'

'Let's go then ' she said, taking his hand. 'We have a deal'.

He felt as if she was leading him into unknown territory and was unnerved but had to follow her anyway. His need was too strong to resist and that in itself seemed frightening.

She realised he feared intimacy but she knew better; he had nothing to fear from her or from their lust. The path she was about to show him was guileless and safe, whereas the tunnel he had unwittingly thrown himself into for a child-woman he could never have would only lead to misery and pain.


	7. Pretty Rosie

They were both alone, and he, the huge fearsome warrior, was the one that felt uneasy, insecure and at a disadvantage in front of her, a woman who sold her body. He had told her to undress and she had complied but, fully clothed as he was while she stood naked as her nameday, she seemed the one in control and he, the one out of place.

Gods, he needed to feel good! He wanted to feel those breasts filling his hands, he also wanted to enjoy her luscious body, all her body now in display for his hungry eyes, just as he had demanded . He had lit a couple of candles but,for once, the candlelight didn't seem enough. She turned round for him to contemplate her nakedness from every angle, swaying her hips while she turned slowly. Her breasts seemed to rise and fall with her every move, with her every breath, heavy and a bit too large for her slender midrif and specially for that tiny waist that contrasted with the generous hips it expanded into. He looked at her buttocks with increasing hunger; like her breasts, they were a bit too large, if compared with the slight beauties the songs and paintings favoured as ideal, but they appealed to his taste, far more than the flat chests and skinny backsides of ethereal beauties.

Uneasy he might feel but he was no coward and he wanted her very much, so he approached her from behind and embraced her, molding her curvaceous form to his, so big and poweful it dwarfed her, despite her height above average, her long legs and her generous curves. She looked tiny in his arms and shivered when his left hand cupped her breast at the same time as his fingers caressed her rounded hip to go lower, making her gasp in anticipation, hold her breath, and then release it in a helpless moan when she felt them where she was already craving his touch.

She felt him nibling her earlobe while he fondled her breast and caressed her between her legs, teasing her inmensely, still neglecting her core. But it was better this way because if he touched her there she would... 'Oh! Gods!' she cried out, because he had just pressed his thumb against her most sensitive spot and, encouraged by her reaction, continued rubbing and pinching and then circling her flesh, thus making her lose all semblance of control.

'Mmmmm. You like it, little whore? Like me fingers there?You are dripping already...I want to take you... now ... and your cunt seems ready for me.

Without another word he lifted her in his arms and took her to the bed where he dropped her on the mattress.

His eyes intent on the triangle of red curls between her legs, he undid the front of his breeches and was about to release his manhood when she sat up and cried 'No, not like this' ' I'll do anything and everything you wish tonight but only if we are just a man and a woman, not a thug and a whore, just a man and a woman giving and taking pleasure.

His eyes were angry when they lifted to hers.

'Don't play with me, woman. You seemed more than ready and liking very much everything I did to you.'

She covered her nakedness with the rumpled sheet and shook her head. Without his wicked fingers making her body weak with desire she could think more clearly and she wanted more from him, everything she could get.

'I'm not playing, I'm being serious, Clegane. Do not call me whore again. Call me anything but that. I have a name, you know. Back in the nort I was named Rose, call me by my given name, or wench, lass, woman... '

He scoffed a derisive laughter. Hell, he was nasty when he wanted to.

'Don't tell me you want me to call you sweetheart ... or love.'He laughed again, a harsh and scornful laugh. 'That's funny, the little harlot wants my endearmens... Woman ,you're pathetic... and I thought I was a wretch, now look at you...'

He was laughing so hard his eyes began to water but she was dead serious, she really meant her every word. She felt like Rosie again, the prettiest lass in her village, and the prettiest in town as well. All the men wanted the fire between her legs, and she had fire there then, she did, and she had ambition too and too many foolish dreams in her head. Fire and foolishness lead her to the life she now had. Her dreams had come to nothing and her fire had turned into ashes. Pretty Rosie was no more than a whore now and she had nearly forgotten her childhood name and her fire, or her pride. But now she had found this man who made her heart clench and her blood boil again. He would never be hers but she could pretend that he was for a few hours that might be her last or his, or perhaps both.

She would have him, body and soul, and for a few hours, she would feel like her old self one more time, and then, if she had the chance, she woud head north again, somewhere up north where nobody remembered her past, and there she would work to regain her worth, and maybe get a future, and a man she could call hers.

She got up and faced him, fully naked but not teasing, no games, no playing there.

You may laugh all you like,Clegane, but never call me whore again. I don't need endearments from you but it's stupid of you to save them for someone you'll never have, who will never hear them.

'What the hell are you talking about...you wh...?'

'Call me that and I'll leave. You can count on that, dog... '

He looked murderous when he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, making her breasts heave as he shook her body. She was suddenly afraid that she had gone too far and made him too angry but she wanted it to happen her way or none at all, so she risked his anger and violence by goading him more. She sensed he was decent, deep down, that he wouldn't hit her or rape her, but she hardly knew him. She did not know what he was capable of doing.

He inhaled once, twice and then pushed her towards the bed again and made her sit on it, as he sank on his knees and captured one of her nipples with his lips , he suckled it while he fondled her other breast, learning from her physical reactions what she liked and how she wanted it. She feared then that she could do anything for him, even if he called her whore and treated her like one, if that was what he wanted.

Somewhat reluctantly, she pushed him from her chest, and tried to make him listen to her and let her think clearly, but he grunted, grabbed her breast again and and continued suckling it.

She made him stop again and he looked at her without understanding what was wrong.

'You want me to stop? I thought you liked me to touch and caress them and I like it too.'

'And I do, but I want something else from you.' she answered breathlessly.'You have seen me naked, now I want to see your body too. Take your clothes off so that I can see you.'

'That's not neccessary... we can...'

' But I like your body and I couldn' t enjoy it the way I wanted that blasted night you threw me out of your bed and your room. Take all your clothes off and let me see you, I want to see you well, all of you.

'Hell, want to mock me? I'm ugly as sin.

'It's your body I want to see and I liked what I saw that night, very much. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that body of yours. If the women in Kings Landing knew what you're hiding under those shabby garments, you would spend far fewer lonely nights.

That made him angry, he did not believe her and thought she was mocking him. His old wounds were deep, and the ones of the soul run deeper than the physical ones. Mistrust and suspicion were already a part of him, as much as his scars. So, she approached him and kissed him, undoing his tunic as she kissed and touched him. He let her have her way and though she felt him still tense and suspicious, he gave in and let her undress him until he was completely exposed.

Suddenly, she ended the kiss and looked at him, at every inch of his body.

'You know what? You have a beautiful body. No, no. Don't look at me that way, it's beautiful, manly, powerful and extremely arousing for a woman to look at, to feel, to touch. Stand up and bring the candles nearer, I want to see your muscles ripple as you move, those tight buttocks and your strong legs... and your sword, that longsword of yours...

What you hide can make a woman's mouth water, so let me see what you deny yourself and everyone else, oh yes, come here now.'

And he did what she asked from him, but before he came back to her he took a long draught of wine. Her eyes roamed his body with something akin to hunger, and he didn't care if everything was a lie as long as she kept looking at him like that, like women looked at other men, but never him. Him, they didn't even look at. He knew everything must be a lie but that redhead lied very well; not enough, though. A dog could smell the truth and no amount of cheap perfume could deceive him. They both stank of failure, misery and disappointment.

However, he lay in bed next to her and let her kiss him long and hard. They touched each other, he took her and let her ride him, just as she had said she would. He had more pleasure in one night than he had had in years and gave pleasure as he had never done before, but when she made him look into her blue eyes as he reached his climax, she knew he was not with her, that his heart ached even as he took her, even as he came. And she felt sorry for him and for herself, because she could have loved him and ease his pain and hers, but it was too late. He was lost to her and she would never reach him, not even when he was inside her. She felt like crying but had forgotten how to cry, long, long ago.


End file.
